The Art of Pretending
by rdrose
Summary: While working a case at a couples resort in Vermont, you enlist the help of the Winchesters to get yourself inside. But when you and Sam find yourselves having to go undercover as a married couple, long-buried feelings arise and make for an uncomfortable situation. Cue sexual tension, slow build, and eventual smut.
1. A Modest Request

**A/N:** So this story turned out to be much, much longer than I'd originally intended (I guess I'm just a sucker for detail). The story is actually complete; it's six chapters total, and I plan to update it once or twice a week until it's all been posted. Alright: strap in, because you're in for a wild ride, my dear friends.

* * *

When Dean sees your name pop up on his caller ID, he's surprised, to say the very least. He answers with only minor hesitation. "Hey stranger – long time no see!"

"Hey Dean," you say, your nerves evident in your tone. "I, uh – I could really use your guys' help with a case I'm working right now."

"No small talk – straight to business. It's cool, I get it. Hang on, let me put you on speaker phone," he says, mouthing your name to his brother as he brings him into the conversation. "Alright, sweetheart, you've got our attention. You _never_ ask us for help – it's usually the other way around. So, I'm wondering, what could you _possibly_ be up against that you can't handle on your own?"

You can hear the smirk in his voice – he _should_ be intimidated by you, but instead, he treats you like a little kid with a foam sword who thinks he's a dragon slayer. But you really _are_ badass, and you both know it, so you let it slide.

"It's not that I can't handle it alone. It's just—" you stop abruptly, not letting him get you flustered. _Because he's really good at that_. "I just can't _reach_ it by myself."

"Oh- _kay_ … Well, that's a little vague. Care to share the details with the rest of the class?"

"Don't be a dick, Dean," Sam interjects.

"Thanks, Sam, but I've come to expect no less from him," you reply. "It's, um – well, there's this resort – Mount Ellen Couples Resort – in Vermont where, well, _couples_ keep going missing. Happy couples only, really – or so it seems, at least. It's supposed to be one of those places where rich people go for sex and relationship therapy, so it's kept almost entirely off the books – credit card charges, receipts, and anything else that would leave any sort of paper trail can't be traced back to the resort. I guess people go there wanting to keep their relationship problems a secret, though some just go there for the 'romance' or whatever. Anyway, I tried to get in with a housekeeping job, but apparently, they vet all of their employees pretty deeply, and most of the jobs there are kept in the family. So, essentially, I need one of you two to be my—" you hesitate to say the words, "—my _significant other._ "

"So, hang on a second – you need us to do _what_ , now?" Both men are laughing at this point – but at least they can't see you blushing on the other end of the line.

"I just need one of you to come along and play the role as my husband. I can do all of the work myself – hell, you could spend the whole time sipping mojitos and soaking in a hot tub for all I care. I just need another person to get myself in."

"First of all, there's no way you can ask one of us to tag along and _not_ help out with the hunt, and second of all, don't you have a close friend that you hunt with – Jen, was it? Wouldn't she go with you?"

You roll your eyes. "You _slept_ with her, Dean. You know damn well what her name is. And no, the uh – the resort is incredibly homophobic. And you both know that I'm not really the kind of person to have other _friends_ ," you say, spitting the last word like venom from your tongue.

"You can say that again," Dean jests.

"So, what do you say? _Please_ don't make me beg," you groan.

"I think we just did," Sam says, proud of his sassy comeback.

"So…?"

You can hear them whispering to each other, before Dean mumbles something about Rock Paper Scissors. Sam sighs in response, saying, "Dude…you know how this always ends. It's not even fair anymore." You're incredibly surprised when you realize that both of them want to go with you.

There's some more whispering before they face off, and as Sam predicted, Dean loses.

"Oh, _damn_ , look at me. Always with the scissors – right, Sammy?"

"Alright," Sam sighs. "Guess you're stuck with me. What do you need me to do?"

"Awh, don't get too excited, now, Sam," you tease. "Well first of all, if we don't want to stick out, we should probably follow the dress code. The clientele there is generally well-dressed, and the resort has a strict formal dress code for the evenings. I've got a friend who's a tailor – he owes me a favor. You can stop by his place on your way – he'll be expecting you. We'll be there for three nights, so pack accordingly, and bring your handgun. I'll have the rest of my gear with me. I'll text you the address – meet me there tomorrow at 4pm. Questions?"

He just huffs that awkward chuckle that is so very characteristic of him – he's never been very comfortable around you, so this weekend should be interesting. "Nope. I, uh – I think we're good."

* * *

You met the Winchester boys back when you were a kid. As the children of hunters, you'd crossed paths quite often over the years – at motels, mutual friends' houses, and the like. Your parents would often drop you all off at Bobby's for a night while they went on hunts nearby. By the time that you were 10 years old and Sam was 12, Dean stopped staying with you guys – at that point, John Winchester decided that his eldest son could completely handle himself in a hunt. Sam always argued with his father, saying that he wanted to tag along, so you argued with your mother, too – you didn't actually want to go with her, though. You just wanted the boys to think that you were tough.

As you grew older, you stopped seeing them as often – and when you were 19, your mom died, and you didn't see them at all for many years to come.

It wasn't until somewhat recently that you met up with them again at Ellen's place. That's when Dean fucked your best friend, Jen. She also grew up in the life – she's bitter and shaken and jaded like you, so you get along swimmingly. And you work well together on hunts, too.

You were absolutely shocked when you saw Sam and Dean prance into the roadhouse after so many years of not having seen them. You recognized them immediately – and at your expression, Jen asked, "You okay there, kiddo? What're you staring at?" When she turned around in her seat and saw the men you were gawking at, she said, "You don't usually react like that to sexy men. What gives?"

"That's—those are the Winchester boys."

"Oh my _god_ – no way! John's boys?"

"Yeah. Uh, we were kind of like friends when we were little."

"Christ, look at them. They're like—"

"Don't finish that thought."

And it was in that moment that they caught you staring and approached your table. And not twenty minutes later, Dean was screwing your best friend back at his motel room, leaving you and Sam at the bar alone together.

You'd thought it would be awkward, but it wasn't. You guys swapped stories and caught up until you were too drunk to think straight and Sam walked you back to your own room – which was, evidently, in the same motel as theirs. They'd left before you'd awoken the next day, but not without having slipped their contact info under your door. You've kept in touch ever since.

* * *

"Dude, I was trying to _help you._ Don't give me that bitchface – I know you've had a crush on her since you were, like, twelve."

Sam huffs a frustrated laugh, saying, "Yeah, Dean – I _did_ have a crush. I got over it, okay?"

"Now you're just lying to yourself, man. And I know that she only puts up that tough-girl front of hers because she wants you back, so go for it! It's not often that you get to go to a _resort_ , of all places – and you'll probably even be sharing a bed, for god's sake. What more do you want?"

"Whatever. It's just a hunt, Dean. I'm not gonna overthink it," Sam says as he leaves the room to go pack.

Dean calls out after him, " _Don't forget to bring protection!_ "

* * *

You meet up at a vacant parking lot away from the resort so that you can arrive together.

"Hey," you say in greeting as he parks and gets out of the car. You hug kind of awkwardly. "Awh, look at you all dressed up without the flannel!" The sleeves of his fitting button-down shirt are rolled up to the elbow, exposing his strong, capable forearms. _God, what is he doing to me?_

"Thanks – this is actually just my fed suit, sans the jacket. And I uh, wow – I just never would've thought in a million years that I'd see you in heels."

He's blushing a bit, so you just smile. "Well, get used to it. Did Patrick give you any problems?"

"Nope. He was pretty cool. I've never been measured in my life though, so that was a little weird. I was also confused when he handed me dresses," he says confusedly, getting the garment bags out of the back seat of his car.

"Oh, yeah – I just had him make me a few gowns for the evenings. Thanks for picking them up." You rifle through your purse a bit, pulling out two wedding bands and an engagement ring. "Oh, also, here – you'll need this," you say.

"Shit – these are _nice_. Where did you get them?"

"A lot of people owe me a lot of favors," you remark, sliding the engagement ring and wedding band onto your finger. "Not my style, personally, but I just kind of took what I could get."

After loading his stuff into your car and getting back on the road you debrief him on the specifics of the case: four couples in the area missing over the past several months, all seemingly happily married, none of them wealthy or high-profile enough to raise suspicion. It took a lot of detective work, but you eventually traced all of the couples to this very place – you have your work cut out for you.

With a bit of hesitation, he asks, "So, what's our story?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, what do we do, how did we meet, how did we get together – you know, the questions people ask."

"Yeah, I tried to think about this before but didn't get much further than the names. Okay. I guess let's just stay as close to the truth as we can." He laughs openly at this, and you giggle in response. "You know what I mean. We'll be Kim and Fred Moore – yeah, that's the name on the card I used. You're a lawyer and I'm a housewife. We met as kids, because our parents used to travel a lot together for work. We can make the rest up as we go along. Sound okay?"

He he just kind of stares blankly at you for a moment. "Yeah, but um – housewife? Really?"

"Yeah. Figured I'd never get another chance to be one in this lifetime, so why not kick back and enjoy it for one weekend? I've always been a decent actress."

"I believe it."

When you pull up to the valet, you laugh to yourself as the bellhop takes your bags – one of which holds nothing but weapons and monster-hunting necessities (the paisley material of the suitcase is very inconspicuous, you reason). You take Sam's proffered arm, avoiding eye contact with him at all costs as you make your way inside; you're comfortable like this, as long as you don't have to _look_ at him. _God forbid._

Checking in is simple. The man at the front desk (who introduces himself as Mark) gives you information about how the therapy sessions and the dinners work, making note of the dress code for the latter. He gives you a tour of the cocktail lounge, the gym, the indoor pool, the courtyard, the dining hall, and the area reserved for sessions, and he walks you up to your room personally. It's all very nice and fancy, but you and Sam both spend the entire tour scoping out the joint.

Mark concludes the tour by saying, "This is your room. You'll find that your luggage has already been brought inside, and the schedule for events and your assigned group sessions are posted on the back of the door. If you need anything at all, or if you have any questions, don't hesitate to contact the front desk. And the secretary will call in the next fifteen to twenty minutes to schedule your therapy sessions. We'll be sending your first complimentary meal via room service shortly. Get comfortable, and we'll see you tonight at 7 in the dining hall!"

* * *

"This is un _real,_ " you groan with delight as you fall backwards onto the California king-sized bed with its amazingly comfortable duvet and the fluffiest pillows you'd ever lay your head on. Sam is anxiously scoping out the rest of the room with his hands in his pockets, making a funny face at the heart-shaped hot tub. "C'mere, Sam, you gotta try this," you say, patting the space beside you.

With great hesitation, he joins you, sighing at the comfort which he is so unused to as a hunter. "How the hell did you find this case?"

"Another hunter tipped me off. Didn't want to get his hands dirty, I guess," you say. "So, any hunches so far?"

"Not really. The people working here look a bit too happy, though. I don't know. We'll just have to take a closer look around."

There's a knock at the door, and when you answer, you're greeted with a fancy-schmancy food cart, complete with a dome-lidded platter, silver utensils and cloth napkins, and roses in a glass vase. "Oh my god, this looks to _die_ for!" They've brought you a lovely lunch platter, with fresh parmesan and arugula salad and salmon finger sandwiches. Jokingly, you gasp, "Oh god, do you think it's _poison_?!"

Sam laughs heartily, replying, "Only one way to find out."

The two of you eat your lunch out on the room's balcony, and surprisingly, it's not awkward. The time passes with jovial conversation, and slowly but surely, Sam loosens up.

Just as you finish your meal, the phone rings, and Sam goes inside to answer.

"Alright, well – it looks like our first therapy session is tomorrow at 1:00pm. Ready to cook up some marital issues?"

"I don't think we need to. It looks like all of the couples that went missing were happily married."

You discuss it a bit further before electing to take a nap before tonight's festivities. Sam decides to take an unsupervised look around the resort in the meantime.

* * *

He gets back just as you're getting ready in the bathroom. "Get dressed, Mr. Moore. We're leaving in 15 minutes." _Shit, these are stunning,_ you think as you take your first look at the gowns that your tailor prepared for you. _Note to self: text Patrick to thank him for being a miracle worker._

You slip your trusty iron ring onto your right hand, as you always do before a covert hunt, but that's about as familiar as it gets for you tonight; the rest of the night's preparations are very foreign to you. You're used to untying knots behind your back under duress, not tying up lace-back dresses. You've strapped on more bulletproof vests in your life than you have garter belts and thigh-highs. The heels – well, the heels aren't really _that_ foreign to you, actually. You do your best to pin your hair back nicely ( _can't I just do a regular goddamn ponytail and call it a day?_ ), fumbling a bit with your makeup as well. _God, I haven't had to do my makeup this nice since… since I went to prom in Idaho just to gank a demon who was possessing high school kids._

When you finally come out of the bathroom, decked out in your fancy eveningwear, Sam is beyond mesmerized. The dress you're wearing is a gorgeous cream lace mermaid gown, fitted perfectly at your midsection with a lovely (and flattering) sweetheart neckline. "I…I told him not to go overboard. I said I'd take whatever he'd had sitting in storage."

Sam still looks shocked. "Well I don't think he listened to you," he laughs, obviously uncomfortable. You mirror his blush, taking in the breathtaking sight of him dressed to the nines. "You look stunning," he says, finally snapping himself out of his daze. "Shall we?"

"Yeah," you swallow. "I can't fit anything bigger than a switchblade, a small EMF reader, and some holy water in my clutch, so—"

"Already ahead of you," he says as he pulls the handgun out from where it's tucked into the back of his pants. "Let's do this."

* * *

The dinner is…interesting. You've been assigned seats at tables with other couples and enjoy talking to them over the luxurious food, wine, and music. The couple to your left – Heather and Nicolas – has taken quite a shining to you. They're sweet and jovial and incredibly friendly. The couple to your right, however – Bee ('short for Beatrice, darling') and Charles – is rather bitter and condescending towards you and Sam. But either way, it seems that everyone has taken notice of you two. To be fair, you seem very young compared to the other couples here, but Sam does a really great job of keeping up the act. He holds your hand, pulls out your chair for you, and looks at you for all the world like you're the loveliest thing he's ever seen.

"Kim, might I say – your engagement ring is _gorgeous_ ," Heather remarks, and you thank her with a smile. "Tell me – where did you find such a keeper?" she asks, winking at Sam.

"Oh, well we'd known each other since we were very young – our parents travelled together for work, so we'd been friends since we were kids."

"Oh? So you were childhood sweethearts?" asks Nicolas, as everyone around you begins listening in to the conversation.

"Well, not _exactly_ ," Sam replies, squeezing your hand a bit for good measure. "I always had a crush on her—" _I know it's just part of the act, but…_ "—but Kim wasn't very nice to me as a kid – she liked showing me up, proving how tough she was. It was adorable, when I was already at least a foot taller than her," he says, everyone around you laughing along with the story. "But we actually didn't see each other for over a decade, until we ran into each other at this bar in the middle of rural nowhere. She was on a road trip with her friend and their car had broken down in town, and I was there with my brother on business. When I saw her, it was like fate, really."

"Yeah, it was totally 'fate' when my best friend ended up in bed with Fred's brother, like, fifteen minutes after their first hello—" You've got the crowd all worked up and laughing now, everyone listening intently.

"It was _definitely_ fate, because as soon as I laid eyes on Kim, I remembered how much I missed her." There are resounding _'awwwh's'_ from the people around you. "And because when they left, I got to be alone with her. I saw how beautiful she was, and I knew at that point that I had to have her," he says, looking into your eyes as the people around you clap. You can't help but blush at the story, however fabricated it may be.

"Oh, just _kiss her_ , for god's sake," someone says – and he does.

It's just a sweet, simple press of lips – chaste in its simplicity. But when the people around you start cheering you guys on, you can feel Sam smile against your lips before he takes your head in his hands and deepens the kiss. When the two of you break apart, you look into his eyes, speechless. And it's as if the whole world around you goes dark and nothing else matters. You forget about the hunt for a moment and let yourself enjoy this; after all, it's not like you'll ever get to have the real thing, so you might as well enjoy it while you can. And it kind of just slips out when you say, _"I love you._ "

"I love you too," Sam replies before kissing your forehead and holding you close. You pause for just a moment to breathe in his scent. You don't get to enjoy it for long, though. Next thing you know, Sam is mumbling, _"Dance with me,_ " into your hair – almost as if he doesn't actually want you to hear him.

"I'm a terrible dancer," you mutter back. This is a private moment (amidst a grand façade and a stellar performance) which you don't want to share with anyone else.

"Me too," he replies, audibly this time. "You think maybe with both of us being terrible we'll cancel each other out?"

You laugh. "Four left feet still doesn't equal two good pairs," you remark. "But if we suck, we suck together. Maybe we can make it look graceful – start a trend."

"Let's do it – come on, it's a slow song."

"Well, it _would_ be a shame not to show off these outfits…"

"Oh yeah, by the way – Patrick demanded that we send him selfies."

* * *

You've shaken hands with everyone you've met while wearing your iron ring, you've put holy water into the glasses of anyone whom you and Sam have deemed suspicious, and you've run your EMF reader around the perimeter of the room – everything has turned up clean tonight without incident, and you can't help but feel uneasy as a result.

On the other hand, Sam (or Mr. Moore, rather) has been the perfect doting husband, keeping an arm around you at all times and making polite conversation with the flock of socialites in the dining hall. He doesn't seem very bothered by the whole hunt situation. You suppose he's just trying to make the most of a weird trip.

The two of you retire to your suite after the night's festivities, having danced and drank aplenty (with emphasis on the drinking part). You feel as bubbly as the champagne served with dessert, and Sam's smile is ingrained in his features. That is, until you make it to the elevator – at which point, the awkwardness from earlier returns tenfold, leaving you in a tense, sobering silence for the entirety of the trip back up to your room.

Sam resolves to wait until the two of you are in your room to talk about the hunt. As soon as you open the door, however, you notice something: a standing ice bucket holding a bottle of wine sits at the end of the bed, with a handwritten note tied around the neck of the bottle, simply saying, _'Enjoy your stay.'_

The two of you share a very brief glance before quickly bursting into action, searching the room for hex bags and making sure all of your gear is exactly where you left it.

"I don't think anything has been moved," you say.

"Yeah, and I can't find anything that wasn't already here before," he replies with only mild panic in his tone. You laugh bitterly to yourself, slumping down onto the bed. "What is it?"

"I just – I can't help but think that because we are so deprived and so starved for luxury in our usual accommodations, the very suggestion of room or maid service is absolutely unnerving to us. We've just been scared like feral cats."

He mirrors your laugh and flops back onto the bed beside you, running his hands over his face. "God, I think you're right. But in our line of work, it's not like our fear is completely unfounded. Someone going into our room while we're not there has never been a good sign in the past."

"That's exactly my point. Do normal people react well to this sort of thing, you think?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I just feel like the whole thing is sort of ominous. That note that they left – it's almost like it's a command, not a suggestion."

You can't help but giggle at that. "Okay, now you're reading too far into it." You pause, a feeling of exhaustion quickly overcoming you. All of the dancing, the constant acting (read: _lying_ ), the drinking, and trying to investigate on top of all of that hits you all at once, and suddenly, you can't keep your eyes open any longer. "Sam—"

"Huh?" His tone suggests that he's feeling the same way.

"Could you, um – could you help me untie my dress?" You get up, kick off your shoes, and hold your hair up. "I don't think I have it in me to wrestle with the laces behind my back right now."

"Yeah, sure," he replies, noticeably holding his breath as he slowly unties the bow on the back of your dress and loosens the laces with not-so-sober fingers.

"Thanks," you say, and with a boldness that only comes from being exhausted and having drank too much, you simply slip the dress off, drape it over the chair beside the bed, strip off the garter belt and stockings, grab a tee shirt from your bag, and climb right into bed – "Also, our assigned group session is at 11:00 tomorrow morning. Don't let me oversleep, okay?" Needless to say, Sam is left rather stunned at your nonchalant state of undress.

"Yeah – sure. I, uh—I'm just, um—I'm gonna take a shower."

He tries to quickly excuse himself from the room, and with whatever energy you have left, you realize that you probably just made him severely uncomfortable. _But he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to blush at a woman undressing in front of him. Just look at him, for fuck's sake. But then again, we've been 'just friends' since we were kids, so I'm probably just like a little sister to him – which would definitely make him uncomfortable. Whoops._

"Oh, and uh, Sam—"

"Yeah?"

 _Make it less awkward – say something with an implied winky-face emoji at the end. Break the tension. Come on, be cool!_ "I don't have a spoon preference," you mumble with a smile. "And fair warning: if you snore like you did when we were kids, you'll likely wake up with bruises on your shins."

He huffs a laugh ( _Success!_ ), saying, "Got it. I'm pretty sure I grew out of the snoring thing, but sure. No hard feelings."

You doze off almost immediately. Sam doesn't come to bed for at least another 15 minutes – _must be a real chore shampooing his hair to make it look so nice –_ but as soon as he exits the bathroom (the steam and the amazing smell of a man's shower wafting out with him), you're suddenly wide awake. You're privy to every single sound in the room – there's the rustle of the towel wrapped around his waist, and the super light sound of his bare feet tiptoeing through the room. He obviously forgot to bring clothes into the bathroom with him in his haste, so you hear him rifle through his bag, then hesitate to disrobe and get dressed in the middle of the room. He checks to make sure you're asleep, and suddenly you're very conscious of your movement and your breathing pattern. He quickly gets dressed – sweatpants and a tee shirt, you assume – and slips into bed gently so as to leave you undisturbed.

The bed is so luxurious that you can hardly feel him move – yeah, it's like one of those mattresses in the commercials where there's a person jumping up and down on one side of the bed without disturbing the glass of red wine on the other – but you can still tell that he's incredibly tense. In a strategic maneuver, you sleepily roll over onto your other side, hoping that the movement is enough to show him that he can breathe without bothering you (but now you're facing him, so that's probably weird?). He's far enough away from you that you can safely assume that he's hanging off of the side of the bed. You want to curl up along his side, but decide not to push your luck. _Maybe tomorrow._

You don't realize how badly you want to be touching him until you're sharing a bed with him without sharing a single degree of warmth.


	2. Sessions

You wake up to a knock at the door at at 9:30am, finding the bed beside you completely vacant (and you don't dare question your disappointment). Breakfast has been delivered to your room, and without Sam there, you kick back and watch some cartoons while saving roughly ( _exactly_ ) two-thirds of the breakfast tray for him. _This certainly beats a breakfast buffet._

Sam comes in at 10:15 all sweaty from the gym, and you take a moment to appreciate his physique. "Oh my god, _please_ tell me that there's protein somewhere on that tray. I'm starving."

"Yeah, I already ate, so the rest is yours." You dig through your bag for another stuffy housewife outfit before making your way to the bathroom. "We've got the group therapy thing in a half hour, so I'm gonna shower – I'll be out in ten."

* * *

The group session is held in an atrium of sorts, with a great big glass ceiling and pretty indoor greenery. Despite the large, open area, the setting actually feels pretty private – it's currently closed for the group session, so it's bereft of the chatter that you witnessed during your initial tour of the facility. In the center of the room sits a large circle of benches, with about a dozen couples waiting around. You and Sam join the group and make polite conversation until the therapist arrives.

"Hello, everyone! My name is Dr. Harris, and I am a sex therapist and a couples' counselor." Dr. Harris looks like your average librarian – maybe 5'5, shoulder-length straight brown hair, glasses, pencil skirt, etcetera. She clutches a clipboard in her arms as she greets the group warmly. "I know what you're thinking: _'The posting just said group session, not group sex session!'_ The truth, my friends, is that no one would come to a _'group sex session,'_ really. Unless they were looking for an orgy or something – anyway, regardless, most people would be far too embarrassed to come to a group session that had anything to do with sex, so I just decided to omit that detail altogether." Uncomfortable glances are exchanged around the room alongside awkward laughter. "Once we get going, it's not nearly as terrifying as it seems."

It's in this moment that you make eye contact with Sam – and you can see the tension set in his jaw and his shoulders, you can hear the apprehension in his every exhale, and you can feel his piercing, vigilant gaze as it sweeps over you before quickly moving on to its next target. He observes every single inch of the room and every single detail of the people around you, picking them apart like specimens under a microscope. You can't help but wonder what he sees in you right now.

"This is a three-day program – each day we'll do a different exercise, and I think you'll find them very enlightening. But before we get started, I just want to explain a bit about the purpose of this program. Just a quick disclaimer: this is _not_ sex therapy. Sex therapy seeks to treat an individual's symptoms rather than a couple's sex life as a whole. For example, you might schedule an appointment with me during your stay here for a low libido or for other sexual dysfunctions – and you can imagine that this sort of therapy would most certainly not be productive in a group setting."

A woman raises her hand, somewhat reluctantly. "Pardon me, I don't mean to sound rude, but what exactly _is_ the point of this, then?"

"No offense taken," the doctor replies with a soft smile. "So, essentially, the purpose of this program is to work on relationship problems as a whole – and the state of a couple's sex life can have a _huge_ impact on their relationship. So, this program seeks to help alleviate the stresses on your marriage – whether they be sexual or emotional in nature – and to give you the right tools to help you communicate with your partner. Any questions?" The group is silent. "Alright, let's get started! Just as an ice-breaker, I want to go around the room and have one person from each couple introduce themselves and say how long they've been married."

Among the group are a few familiar faces from the night before, including Bee and Charles and Heather and Nicolas. Thankfully, there are least three other younger couples, so you and Sam don't stick out as much. The two of you are the last couple in the circle, and when it's your turn, you introduce yourself (as Kim) and Sam (as Fred), saying that you've been married for three and a half amazing years ( _gag_ ). You try to sound as cloyingly sweet as possible.

When the introductions are over, Dr. Harris rubs her hands together, grinning, and says, "Alright, so, today's exercise will help get us all a bit more comfortable. I want you all to be able to talk openly about your relationship and about your sex life. Okay, so take a notepad, and when I ask you a question, write down your answer, and we'll go around the circle and share. We'll start with a few fun ones, then we'll get a bit more personal." She hands out a stack of slightly worn steno pads and a wide variety of pens.

"But before we get into all of that, I know that no one's quite comfortable yet, so I'm going to share a bit about myself to get the ball rolling. Okay. So, my name is Marissa. I'm 34 and I'm currently single – you'd think that as a sex therapist, I'd be able to change that status, but it doesn't really work that way. I'm a Libra and I'm really into tall men, men who like dogs, and men who can cook. My drink of choice is a vodka tonic, and when I have too much of it, I become a karaoke star." The group laughs. "I've had four sexual partners in the past year, and I've been in three BDSM relationships in my life, and they were pretty great. And that about completes my spectacular resume." The room is silent, and the looks on everyone's faces range anywhere from shocked to amazed to impressed. "Okay, so. First question – and I want you to write the answer down, folks, so you don't chicken out – what is your biggest kink?"

People's answers include things like spanking, choking, voyeurism, and exhibitionism (and combinations thereof), and when Sam's turn comes, he very purposely avoids making eye contact with you. His voice is flat when he reads, "I like having my hair pulled." He absentmindedly tucks his hair behind his ears after clearing his throat in his discomfort.

You smirk to yourself, knowing that this is a useless tidbit to have stored in your memory, but cherishing it nonetheless. You are so distracted that you completely forget that it's your turn until Dr. Harris calls your name. "Oh, uh – I like when my partner takes charge. And I love being bitten."

Dr. Harris nods, saying, "Mine is bondage. Love me some bondage." Again, the group laughs jovially, obviously much more comfortable now. _Wow, this chick really knows what she's doing._ "Okay, next question: What's the most ambitious sexual thing you've ever done?"

The first woman to read her answer says, "I once tried to fit in a costume from a sex shop. Just thinking that I could fit in it was terribly ambitious in and of itself." She earns a good laugh from the entire group, which helps ease the awkwardness a bit.

When it's Heather's turn, she says, "Well, me and Nicolas made a sex tape once. It was pretty terrible, but a sex tape nonetheless." Her husband argues that that was his answer as well. The doctor lets him slide.

You learn that Bee and Charles are swingers and once partook in a foursome. You try your hardest not to picture that.

When it's Sam's turn, he grins almost sheepishly, saying, "I've, uh – I've had sex in public before. I knew a girl who took me to a BDSM club. She needed a 'dom' – they gave me a fake name and everything."

Dr. Harris smiles warmly. "What name did they give you?"

He huffs a laugh, blushing red as he rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment. "It was, uh – they called me 'Adonis.'" You really can't help but laugh along with the others (perhaps harder than them, actually) – and eventually, Sam joins in.

You shake your head, realizing that it's your turn. "I had a job as a stripper once. It only lasted about a week, but I was pretty good at it," you say with a smirk, tossing a playful wink in Sam's direction. You leave out the part about you having been undercover to catch a siren.

The doctor asks, "Why did you stop?"

You hadn't really thought that far. In truth, when the hunt was over – and the club's best entertainer had gone missing – you had to bolt. "Well, uh—my boss was a sleazeball. I had too much self-respect to put up with that," you jest.

"Fair enough," she replies. "Alright, question number three – we're gonna get a little more personal here: what is your partner's biggest strength, and what's their greatest fault? This one doesn't have to be about sex."

A woman from one of the other younger couples answers, "Mark is the most caring, sympathetic person I've ever known." Mark (a very large, very intimidating man) doesn't like her answer. You can't exactly imagine the guy petting puppies and gardening, but appearances can be deceiving, you suppose. "But he can be very stubborn."

Mark's answer follows hers: "Emily is very in-tune with everyone's emotions – especially mine. She always knows when I'm, you know, _in the mood_." He pauses, obviously hesitant to throw his wife under the bus. "But she's—she can be, um—"

"You can say it, hon. You know I won't be mad." She makes eye contact with him, and his hard-set face breaks into a small, reluctant smile. It's unsettling.

"She keeps things pretty vanilla, and she likes making me do all the work, if you catch my drift."

Emily barks a laugh in response, saying, "Yeah. It's true."

"This is progress, guys," Dr. Harris remarks. "Alright: Phil, Caroline – you're up next. Strengths and faults?"

When it comes time for you and Sam to answer, you don't know what to expect. You didn't discuss this beforehand – after all, you hadn't planned on this group session thing being centered around sex. Oh, you expected to have to talk about sex at some point – but you'd presumed it would be in therapy. At least there you'd be having an open conversation – you could drop hints and ask leading questions to keep you and Sam on the same page. But here, you don't get to discuss your answers beforehand. You don't get to talk it out with Sam. That's probably the point of the exercise, you reason, but it's terribly inconvenient when your whole marriage is a sham.

Sam goes first, as per the clockwise order of the circle. He takes your hand in his as he lowers his notepad into his lap, obviously signaling to you to read his formulated answers, so that you're not surprised by them (and just in case you need help coming up with your own). It's written in shorthand – _how sweet_ – so the average onlooker wouldn't really be able to read his code. It says:

 _strength = good at sex  
and she can kill monsters_

 _fault = she's_ [wait, what does that say?] _  
and she's too tough for me_

"My wife is amazing in bed – she's like a goddess to me, even when she's just pouring her morning coffee. I don't really know how I got so lucky." You realize that he's trying to play the 'perfect couple' act. It's working. "But she can be pretty aloof at times. You know – withdrawn. She'll always be a little too cool for me."

Dr. Harris interjects, slightly disbelieving, "Do you really consider that to be her greatest flaw, Mr. Moore?"

"Yeah, well – she's pretty perfect to me. But I don't think she'll ever let go of that tough-guy mentality from when we were kids."

You smile as he wraps an arm around you. "Just 'cause I'm not a teddy bear like you doesn't mean that I'm coo—well, yeah it does. But one of us needs to be carved out of stone or the wolves will tear us to shreds."

" _Shit_ , Kim – that was _deep,_ " Heather says, her voice full of awe as the group laughs. Heather thinks you're being hyperbolic, but you mean the sentiment almost literally.

 _Alright, you're up – fuck. Don't let your heart show. Lie. Make shit up._

"Well in my eyes, Fred's biggest strength is his intelligence and his blindly passionate, unwaivering desire to _always_ do what's right. It's what makes him such a great man and a great – uh, a great _lawyer_ , too." You almost slipped there for a moment. _Wouldn't do to give up the façade just yet._ "But I can easily say that it doubles as his greatest fault as well."

You don't make eye contact with Sam, but the doctor looks rather impressed and you can't help feeling a little smug. "How very Shakespearian of you. Thank you for sharing. This brings us to a very important lesson – one which I feared we wouldn't accomplish today at all. But I'll try to keep it brief.

"They say that many people end up falling out of love often for the very same reasons that they fell in love in the first place. Each lovable quality has a less-desirable flipside: one may fall in love with their partner's carefree attitude, but eventually grow tired of their inability to commit. Fun-loving becomes immature, passionate becomes obsessive, strong-willed becomes obstructive, and spontaneous becomes reckless. The purpose of this question in particular is to consciously recognize these flipsides to your partner's best qualities. If you acknowledge that these flaws exist and come to expect them, pessimistic as that may sound, you just might be able to avoid ever developing negative feelings toward them. And these flaws are much, _much_ easier to accept when you learn of them ahead of time."

Dr. Harris claps her hands together, saying, "Alright, I think that's enough for today. I hope that it's given you each a little something to think about. Here's your homework assignment; I'll see you all tomorrow – same time, same place." She hands out half-sheets of paper with instructions on them, and you don't bother looking at yours just yet. "Class dismissed!"

As you and Sam ride the vacant elevator up to your floor, he begins reading the homework instructions. "Oh, _Kim,_ get a load of this – our homework assignment is a sensual non-sexual massage."

You gasp jokingly, saying, "From a sex therapist? Why, I am positively _scandalized!"_

The atmosphere between the two of you has returned to its previous state, bringing with it the familiar, playful banter, sarcasm, and belligerent sexual tension that you've grown ever-so-fond of. You're not going to let this hunt take that away from you.

 _Fuck._

 _I almost forgot that this is a hunt._

 _But who says that you can't stop to smell the roses every once in a while?_

* * *

You arrive for your counseling appointment ten minutes early, giving you plenty of time to scope out the area.

The waiting room for the therapist's office features serene imagery and a few certificates (to lend credibility, of course), with comforting blueish-greenish hues and light wood flooring – the entire room looks like it's straight off of an IKEA show floor. After checking in with the very sweet secretary, the two of you take a seat on a nearby bench.

"LCSW," you say in a hushed tone. "So… _not_ a doctor."

"You don't need to be a doctor to be a therapist," he replies. "Shit, to Dean, all you need is an 80-proof alcohol content."

The two of you are snickering to yourselves when you're called back for your appointment. The secretary leads you down a hallway to a room, escorting you in before she closes the door behind you.

"Mr. and Mrs. Moore: My name is Abby, and I'm the couples' counselor here at Mount Ellen Couples Resort. Please, get comfortable," she says, gesturing to the loveseat ( _how aptly named_ ) behind you. She takes her seat across from you, and you join Sam on the sofa – your mind immediately going into Hunter Observation Mode™.

The first thing you notice is that the loveseat is purposely very small – it forces couples to sit close together. Instead of acting off, you take Sam's hand and shoot him a very fake smile. You know that he sees right through it, but thankfully, he just kind of rolls with it. The contact alone is enough to make you sweat.

The next thing that you notice is that this "Abby" person is underdressed for the setting – she's dressed very _middle-aged-white-woman-shopping-at-whole-foods-with-her-boho-fair-trade-energy-chakras-and-shit_. Her outfit looks like it was bought at an overpriced hippie boutique which uses its profits to provide coffee to people in third world countries or something. Yet strangely, at the same time, you know that if you questioned the meaning of her hamsa ring, she could give you a detailed, cultured explanation. _Those are the most dangerous people._ She wears a strange brass-colored pendant around her neck (which only peeks out from under the collar of her shirt every so often when she moves a certain way), and it gives you pause. You wonder if Sam notices the same thing.

"So, what brings the two of you to the Mount Ellen?"

"Well, a good friend of mine stayed here a few months ago with her husband, and she highly recommended it – she really enjoyed the food and the social events," you say. "Our, uh – our _marital issues_ aren't necessarily what brought us here. But I mean, every relationship has its problems, right? And our 'problems' are really just a compilation of little things – that's all."

"Little things can tend to add up, sometimes," Abby remarks.

Sam flashes his beautiful smile at her, and for a moment, you're mesmerized. He replies, "Yes, well, my wife has been _begging_ me to visit the art museum in town for a while now, so I figured this would be a nice little vacation for us to, you know, spend time together and focus on us."

"Yeah – no marriage is perfect," you add. "There's always room for improvement, and so we thought that we could probably take something away from the experience, even if we're not expecting to."

Abby sighs, the tone behind it unclear. _Relief? Sarcasm? Frustration? Bliss?_ "So, shall we just dig right in then?" She turns to the table beside her and grabs two notepads and two pens, handing you both one of each. _These people sure do like their notepads._ "You said it was a buildup of little things, right?" You and Sam both nod. "So, I want you each to take a minute to write down the things that you can remember, and we'll go over them after. Just put your pens down when you're done. Oh, and don't just copy each other – even if your partner doesn't write something down, I want you to. Okay, you can start now."

Of course, you and Sam do copy one another to some extent. You're both in the same improv scene here – you have to play off of one another for it to be cohesive. The whole idea going into the resort was to fit the profile of the other victims (the 'perfect' couples) – to sound like you _think_ you have marital issues, but upon closer examination, one would find that they're really quite trivial and aren't really marital issues at all.

Both of you try to channel the most frivolous first world problems that you see people bitching about on social media and on morning talk shows. You choose the items on your list with great care. Sam's list follows a similar outline, keeping his small, both in number and in gravity.

"Alright. So you're going to take turns reading the items on your lists, and after each one, I want you to explain why it bothers you. Sound good?" Both of you nod. "Alright. Kim, why don't you go first?"

You shoot him a look that says, _please, dear god, don't take any of this seriously._

"It drives me nuts when he moves my car to mow the lawn and he moves my driver's seat back. It takes, like, ten seconds of him driving to move the damn car, and yet it takes me _forever_ to get it in the perfect position again," you say, feigning irritation. "I don't think I need to justify that one."

"I think you justified it quite well," she says with a sour-sweet grin. It looks as though she's desperately trying not to laugh. "Alright, what about you, Fred?"

He huffs a humorless little laugh, shaking his head. "She's still mad at me for stealing her Nerf gun when we were like 7 years old and brings it up in arguments a lot," he says, causing you to laugh. _But it's true though. Even when we reunited at Ellen's place, I used it to rope him into buying me a drink._ "She uses it whenever she's run out of reasons to argue with me."

"I think there's more meaning to that than you realize," Abby replies, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her lap. "You see," she begins, and you start to panic. _Oh no. Please don't say something revealing about me. Don't tell him that I'm clinging to our childhood friendship, or that I use it to flirt with him, or that I bring it up because 'serious' makes me uncomfortable. Please don't_ _—_ "That's usually a tactic utilized by those who wish to keep arguments lighthearted, usually for fear of things becoming too serious for their liking. Usually, those people are made severely uncomfortable by arguments." Sam's face does a _'huh, interesting'_ thing and you start to sweat. "It's usually either that, or that the person is trying to flirt by provoking belligerent sexual tension. Though I'd say that that's probably not the case when you're already married." _Shit. Don't make eye contact with him._ "Would you say that any of these are accurate, Kim?"

"Huh? Oh, well – kind of. I mean, I definitely use humor in times of stress to make myself feel more comfortable. But I like to think that I do it because I like remembering our friendship when we were kids." _Welp – that's it. That's literally all of the things that you wanted to avoid being out in the open. Nailed it._

Abby smiles, "And I think knowing the motive behind things like this makes it much more tolerable – it helps to know that you do it for reasons other than solely to annoy him."

"Well, I do that too, sometimes. But I think he knows when I'm kidding around."

"I do," he says, smiling brightly.

"Good. I think this is progress. Aright, Kim – what's next on your list?"

After both you and Sam have read several more lines of your list (consisting of trivial things, like _'not replacing the empty roll of paper towels,'_ or ' _throwing away my leftovers without asking first_ ,' or, perhaps your favorite, ' _when we can't agree on a TV show to watch, so we both just give up and put on the news while we scroll through Facebook on our phones'_ ), the therapist bears a very mixed expression on her face. "I don't think that I'll ever believe that marital issues could be solved in a single session," she remarks, "but I think the two of you are the closest to that possibility that I've ever seen." She smiles, though it's only semi-sweet. There's something disingenuous about it, and it's unsettling, to say the very least. "I'll see the two of you again tomorrow – you can make an appointment with my secretary on your way out. Have a nice day!"

* * *

"So that looked a hell of a lot like an amulet around her neck," you say to Sam as the two of you leave the therapist's office.

Sam waits until the two of you are in the vacant hallway to your suite to continue the conversation. "Yeah. I think Dean would say 'I smell a witch.' Do you think you could draw the design from memory?"

"Oh, yeah. No problem," you say, punctuating your words with the turning of your room's door handle. You rush over to the small writing desk beside the luxurious bed, furiously doodling the symbol from her pendant on the complementary Mount Ellen Couples Resort sponsored notepad. After a while of searching for the symbol on your laptop, you've come up with jack squat. "I can't find it anywhere online, Sam. Do you think there might be lore on it at the bunker?"

"Maybe. Hang on." Sam dials his brother's number on his phone. "Dean! Hey, you busy? I need you to look up this symbol for me. It was on an amulet. I'm texting you a picture of it right now. Awesome. Call me as soon as you find something. We'll keep looking in the meantime."

Dean calls back not twenty minutes later. "Hey Dean. Anything?"

"Yeah, put me on speaker."

"Alright, you're on."

"Okay, so Cas thought he recognized it, and just as he suspected, we found the symbol in this book of Hausa folklore. It's connected to this story of 'soul-eaters' originating from Nigeria, where men are cursed by witches to eat the souls of human victims. When the soul-eater consumes a human soul, the human's body turns to dust – like, literally. The witch would probably use hex bags to indicate their targets. And it looks like that amulet helps the witch control them."

"So we're looking at more than just the couples as victims here."

"Exactly. The witch is forcing someone to do it's bidding. It's pretty sick, and not in the cool way."

"Yeah, Dean, you hate witches – we know. Any idea of how we stop them?"

"Well, you can gank the witch with your special witch-killing bullets, but that still leaves the soul-eater to deal with. It looks like you can break the curse by burning the amulet, but that may or may not also kill the person enslaved as the soul-eater too. I think it would be an act of mercy either way."

"Alright. Thanks, Dean." You say. "Looks like we've got ourselves a powerful witch to gank."

"Go get 'em, tiger," he says as he hangs up the phone.

"Alright, so it's almost definitely the therapist," you conclude. "Do you think it's revenge or something?"

"You mean like revenge against happy couples? Why?"

"Maybe someone broke her heart or something. Hell if I know."

"Well, I can hack into the resort's employee files and find out who she actually is, for starters. Plus, marriage certificates and divorce cases are public record. We could start looking there."

"Good idea. It's a shame – I was really looking forward to going to that five o'clock aquatic fitness class," you sigh teasingly. Sam laughs. "Oh well. Maybe _after_ we gank the bitch."

You find the woman's records rather quickly – her name is Abigail Grace Shaw, 49 years-old, born in northern Louisiana. You don't get much further than that – there's no record of her ever having been married or divorced. The most you're able to dig up on her is that she was raised in the foster care system.

"Sam—" you say, getting his attention. "You'll never believe this – but I think I've found something. From _Facebook_ , of all places."

Yep, sure as shit, there it is: changed her status to 'in a relationship' three years ago, then 'single' about a year ago. And the man? Fell off of the map almost immediately thereafter. And that's when Ms. Shaw moved to Vermont for work. It's all starting to make sense now.

"So what – he dumped her, so she went on a murderous rampage? Does that really make sense?"

"No, but maybe he really broke her heart, so she decided that if she doesn't deserve happiness, then nobody does."

"I guess we'll just have to find out. Do you think we were convincing enough to get her to target us?"

"Oh god, yeah. She looked like she was genuinely nauseous from all of our sweetness," you sing-song jokingly. "And if not, we'll just have to prove it to her in tomorrow's session."


	3. Give 'Em A Show

The evening's festivities are quite different from those of the previous night – especially now that you're privy to the skeletons in everyone's closets (or in their huge, ridiculously extravagant walk-ins, rather). Bee seems less like a snooty old shrew and more like a sad, lonely old woman who wears too much lipstick. Charles seems less like a stuffy, aristocratic snob and more like a man with enough love in his heart for the both of them. You see these people in a new light; it's like re-watching a movie when you already know about the plot twist at the end – now, you get to watch carefully as all of the pieces fall into place. The little mannerisms and insecurities make sense now. It's eerie, to say the very least.

Some of the women from the younger couples – no, scratch that; it's kind of just _most_ of the women now – are making eyes at Sam, laughing and touching his arm like he didn't just say something cheesy or make an outdated reference. Hell, he could name all of the parts that make up a semi-automatic shotgun, and they'd still giggle like schoolgirls.

 _Nope. I refuse to be jealous. What do I have to be jealous of? We're married, for god's sake. Well, fake-married. All of those other women are real-married, though. What exactly are they hoping to achieve?_

 _Fuck. I'm jealous._

You can see him trying to escape the group of women now surrounding him, his wide eyes desperately trying to make contact with yours from several yards away, but you decide to let him suffer for a while. You sip your champagne, probably subconsciously hoping that it will drown out the bitter taste in your mouth.

"Your level of self-restraint is incredibly admirable," says Heather as she takes the vacant seat beside yours. "Have you noticed how literally _all_ of those ladies over there were in our group thingy earlier?" _Of course I noticed, Heather. Don't rub it in._ "You know that they all want him to… to ' _dominate_ ' them now, right?"

Her comment snaps you out of your angry trance, causing a hearty laugh to bubble up from inside your chest. "Oh Jesus, you're _right!_ " The two of you laugh loudly and openly, and Sam shoots you a frown. _God, I really needed that._

"But seriously, though – why aren't you over there laying claim to what's yours?" _Oh, bless your heart, Heather. If only it were actually true._ "If I were you, I'd cling to that piece of man meat like he was my last meal."

"Shit, how much have you had to drink?" You laugh at her bluntness, saying, "I thought you were one of the good guys – you know, one of the ones who _doesn't_ want my husband."

"Oh no, honey. _Everyone_ wants a piece of him. I'm sure half of those women have permission from their husbands to try to lure him into a threesome. I just happen to possess a very rare quality which money can't buy – _human decency._ "

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. "I value that – thank you. Should I save him now?"

"Probably. How many phone numbers do you think have been slipped into his pocket?"

You sort of just blink at her. "That's a good question."

* * *

 _Save me. Please, dear god – save me from these women. If you have any humanity…_

You don't need to have psychic abilities to hear Sam's telepathic screams. You can imagine that he must be drowning in Chanel N°5 and Miss Dior and hairspray and forced high-pitched laughter and awkward small talk.

Finally, you decide to save him, mustering up your best fake smile.

You need only approach the tight circle of women before Sam takes your hand like it's a life preserver. "Excuse me, ladies," he says, dutifully and gracefully removing himself from the center of attention. The women all just stand there dumbly, not sure of what to do now that the object of their flirtations is gone, and they just kind of watch as Sam takes your hand and escorts you to the nearby dance floor. The daggers pointed toward you are almost tangible when Sam wraps an arm around you as you begin to slow dance. "Took you long enough," he says, just loud enough for you to hear.

"Humor me for a minute – check your pockets." He frowns, curious now, releasing your hand to feel inside his front pants pocket. From his left pocket, he pulls a single cocktail napkin with a name and phone number written on it, then two more from his right pocket. You check his jacket pocket, and there's one in there, too – but this one's on the back of the woman's husband's business card. _Ouch. That's gotta hurt._ "Don't look alarmed," you say, trying to reassure him. "Don't even give them the satisfaction of acknowledging them."

"I thought you were going to tell me that someone slipped a hex bag in my pocket!" He's trying to whisper, but it comes out a little louder than he'd meant it to.

"Not quite. I – well, I was just about to poke fun at them and call them all witches, but I'm sure they're just sad and horny and unsatisfied women. I really can't blame them."

"God, now I just feel dirty. Like a used napkin."

"No – a used _cloth_ napkin, maybe. But definitely not the disposable kind." This pulls a reluctant smile from his face, and you feel a bit of pride swell inside of your chest.

"Are they still looking at me?" He bites his lip, looking genuinely concerned. "I don't even want to move my eyes in that direction."

You glance over your shoulder. "Yeah, they are." They aren't even fifteen feet away from you and Sam, still stuck in the same place that they were in before you swept him away. "Though it looks like they're mostly just wishing death upon me."

He laughs, a dark smirk quickly setting on his features. You're too caught up in this moment – in his scent, his eyes, his warmth – to question it.

"I have an idea," he says, catching you off guard as he kisses you deeply, cupping your jaw with one hand and pulling your body flush against his with the other. It takes a moment for you to relax into it, but once you do, you feel an unfamiliar fire spark within you. He breaks the kiss to take a breath, his lips mere millimeters from yours as he mumbles, "Come on – make it count. Give 'em a show."

You do your best, though it's hard to imagine the world beyond you and Sam here, trapped in a single moment, like the spark of a match on a loop. He deepens the kiss, his tongue almost hesitant as it grazes your lips – which causes a very brief, _blink-and-you'll-miss-it_ kind of chain reaction between the two of you.

In this very moment, you can't hold back the small, pathetic little whimper that escapes you, and Sam swallows your whimper with a low, almost inaudible growl, snarling slightly as you grip his dress shirt tightly. The exchange lasts less than five whole seconds, but it's an entire symphony nonetheless.

He breaks the kiss and pulls back just slightly, panting with his eyes closed as he tries to reign himself in. You nip playfully at his lower lip, eliciting a long, satisfied, rumbling groan.

"Y–You think they bought it?" you whisper, your voice small.

He huffs a laugh in response, finally opening his eyes to glance over your shoulder. He's just in time to see the group of women grumbling and rolling their eyes. They don't fully disperse until Sam takes you by the hand and leads you out of the room.

Once again, you don't make eye contact on the way up to your room.

* * *

Immediately upon returning to your suite, the metaphorical dam breaks. Every little emotion that you've been hiding from Sam just gushes out like blood from an artery, in the form of fevered words and mixed facial expressions. You're usually so cool and collected around him – but after that grand display of false affection in the dining hall, you just can't help but react.

You go into the bathroom to splash water on your face. _To hell with my fucking makeup._

"That was… _fun_ ," Sam says, trying to be conversational amidst this mortifying awkwardness. "Thanks for rescuing me back there. Those women would've eaten me alive."

"I can't… I can't do this anymore, Sam," you say, ignoring his words in favor of finally voicing what you've been too scared to say. "It's fucking exhausting."

"What – the acting? You're in luck, 'cause the hunt will be over soon."

"Well, yeah, the acting – but I can't… we're bending over backwards to pretend that we're in love, but—" You exit the bathroom, running your hands over your face and sighing. _I'm gonna regret this._ You begin to pace as you continue, "—but even when we're _not_ pretending we're in love, _I'm_ still pretending – pretending that I don't… _fuck._ "

"That you don't _what_?"

" _Please_ don't make me say it," you say, your voice almost a whisper. _God, what've I done?_ You start to feel choked up as tears gather behind your eyelids.

He just gives you this clueless look, like it's not the most obvious thing in the world. Like he's ten years old again. "I'm not sure wh—"

"That I don't _want_ you, Sam. _Fuck_." You're mostly just angry now – angry at yourself for falling into this trap. You should know better. You've spent almost all of your time with Sam trying to avoid this very eventuality, and now years of bricks stacked high and mighty just crumble before you – this isn't frustration that your feeling; no, this is grief. "But that's just it – I do. And I just can't do that shit anymore." _Don't cry. Don't you fucking dare cry._ "I'm sorry, _shit –_ I know that this is really weird and fucked up, and we're just friends, and I'm probably like a sister to you, but—god, I'm gonna—I need to take a walk or something. I'm so sorry, Sam—"

"Stop," he says, gripping your shoulders to hold you still. He looks down at the floor and does that half-smirk-huffed-laugh-head-shaking thing. "Just—just _stop_ , okay?" He approaches you, and in a very unexpected maneuver, he pulls you into a hug. He grips you tight, with one hand at the small of your back and the other on the back of your head as he holds your body to his; it's different from the way he held you on the dance floor. After a moment of rocking you back and forth, he mumbles into your hair, "I never would've expected to see that kind of emotion from you. Sorry, I just kind of panicked and did whatever I could to put out the flame."

"It's alright – it's working, I think."

"Good," he says, and you swear that you can feel him smile into your hair. "I'm just – I'm really just kind of stunned to learn that there's a mushy center inside that stone heart of yours."

You smile. "Oh, I was never made of stone, Sam – I just wanted you to think that I was. I've been mushy all along."

"Oh yeah, tell that to my 10 year-old self, who got bruises on his shins from your overly aggressive football tactics."

You both laugh at the memory. You're grateful to Sam for lightening the tension just enough to make it bearable.

"Uh, Sam?"

"Please don't apologize again."

"No, it's, um –" you blink the tears away, eyes wide as you notice something out of place inside your room – something that wasn't there a few hours ago.

It's just a shadow, but it's enough.

You make a tactical gesture, getting Sam's attention and dragging him into the bathroom. You turn on the faucet before speaking in a low tone. "There's a shadow on the floor beside the bed – a few inches long, maybe."

"Could it just be a wrinkle in the blanket or something?"

"It could, if that bedspread wasn't tucked within an inch of its life."

"So, what are you thinking? Hex bag?"

"Yeah, probably. But think about it: she could also be vetting us – you know, making sure we're legit. Plenty of therapists record their sessions, right? So that could be a microphone."

"I figured you'd thought that – after all, you've never really been one to waste water," he deadpans, gesturing to the running faucet. "I think the recording thing only happens on TV, though." You're not amused. "Okay… so, radio silence? We just go in and light it up – sound good?"

"Actually, wait. Can we use it to track her? I don't know how else we're supposed to find her. I really don't think she'll be conjuring up a Hausa soul-eater in her office in the middle of the night."

"True. So do we think that she lives here?"

"Her Facebook says that she lives in this town, so maybe. We could hack into the resort's mainframe and search the floor maps or the directory or something," you suggest.

"Eh, that could take too long," Sam says. "And we have no idea when she'll be doing the ritual – it could be in two hours, or two minutes for all we know. Better safe than, well, _dead,_ I guess."

"What are you suggesting then, exactly?"

"It depends on what provisions you have with you in that hideous suitcase of yours."


	4. Invisible Binds

Sam uses the hex bag (yeah, it's just a hex bag – no microphone, you were almost sad to learn) to track down the witch, utilizing some sort of locating spell. After gearing up, your guns loaded with Sam's witch-killing bullets, the two of you head out.

Thankfully, the resort is mostly quiet. The only activity is in the dining hall and in the rooms ( _wink wink_ ); everything else is closed for the night, so you and Sam don't have to be in disguise anymore. It's a relief to put on a pair of jeans and lace up your combat boots, to say the least. You and Sam make use of the staff elevator with a bit of lockpicking, finding the witch in the basement – in some sort of disused laundry room, of all places. She looks to be preparing for a ritual, lighting candles and smudging the room with sage. You and Sam have the tactical gestures down pat, at this point – you quickly communicate from either side of the doorway outside of the room, counting down _three, two, one_ on your fingers before bursting into the room, guns a'blazin'.

When Abby turns around, the shock on her face bleeds into a deep, furrowed disappointment. " _Damn_ ," she says, throwing her lit sage bundle into a nearby cast-iron pot. "This was supposed to be a _surprise._ "

"We know what you've been doing, Abby. The jig's up," you say, the words feeling cliché as they roll off of your tongue. _Shit – that's usually what people say right before they realize that the jig is most definitely not up._

"Oh my, _really_?" she asks sardonically. "You think that I can't smell a hunter from a mile away?"

Sam smirks. "No, actually. Because we _definitely_ fooled you during our appointment. You're a new witch, aren't you? You probably bought this pagan ritual set off of Amazon." You can't help but laugh, your gun lowering just the slightest bit. "You think that _I_ can't smell an amateur witch from a mile away? I'm a hunter, lady – have been my whole life."

Abby just scoffs in response, folding her arms and frowning like an insolent teenager who's just been yelled at by her parents. "I could _end_ you. In fact, I think I probably will."

Sam laughs openly at her, regarding her as if she's a kitten roaring like she thinks she's a lion.

"Hmm," you say, interjecting before Sam has a chance to mock her again. _This poor bitch has no clue who the hell she's dealing with._ "I'll hazard a guess and say that you made a deal with a demon, right? Great power for your soul in ten years, yadda yadda, revenge against the people that hurt you, et cetera. And you use it to turn someone into a soul-eating monster?" Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the smirk on Sam's face. "Does that about cover it?"

She's seething now, a loud fury registering on her face. "Alright, I've had enough of this bullshit. I have a ritual to perform." With a wave of her left arm, she disarms both you and Sam, then with her right arm, she throws the two of you together, back to back on the floor, bound together with some sort of magical invisible rope thing.

Sam whispers to you, "She's going to look away in a few seconds – when she loses her concentration on us, it'll break the binds holding us here. Pretend they're still there. I have a plan."

Abby turns away to begin the ritual, and sure enough, the invisible ropes disappear. She's mumbling something to herself with her eyes closed as Sam quickly scooches over and reaches for his gun on the floor. He gets back in place just in time for Abby to open her eyes as the poor-son-of-a-bitch-turned-soul-eater appears before her in a cloud of smog, his entire being glowing bright green.

"… _Mark?_ " He looks at you with miserable, rueful eyes. "It's _you_?"

"She…she's _making me._ "

"Don't play with your food, sweetheart," Abby singsongs.

"Oh come on," you say. "We're about to die; humor us."

She rolls her eyes, not protesting.

Sam asks, "Why you, Mark?"

"His name is actually Chris," Abby corrects. "Christopher Marcus. Clever, right?"

"We… we dated," he says, obviously reluctant to speak in front of her. "We lived together back in Louisiana."

"How the hell did you end up in _Vermont_?"

Abby presses him, "Yeah, sweetheart – why _are_ you here? Tell them what you _did_."

"I…" he says, pausing as he almost chokes on his words. "I left her."

"He just _left_ me! Up and left me in the middle of the night – no note, no explanation. Poof – gone! A few days later, he left me this super shitty voicemail while I was at work, saying that he needed to get away, that he couldn't be with me anymore. That he was sorry – such _bullshit_. So I went looking for him – idiot used his own car, his own credit card, didn't even bother covering his tracks. I found him here, at his fucking mom's house."

"She was _dying_ , _"_ Chris pipes up. "I got a call that my mother was in an accident and that my brother was going to let the doctors take her off of life support before letting me say goodbye. I just hopped on the next flight here, and when I arrived, I realized how unhealthy my relationship with Abigail was. I didn't even think to tell her before leaving, because I knew she would've protested. So I called when I knew she wouldn't answer, so I wouldn't have to talk to her directly, because I'm a coward – and I said that I needed time away to think. I didn't say that I was leaving her for good."

"Time to _think_?!" She's fuming now. "That's what my mother said when she left me at a bus stop when I was four, you fucking _asshole._ "

He ignores her, continuing his story. "So she rolls in while me and my brother and his wife are planning the god damn memorial, and she blows up on me. She says she'll make me pay for leaving her, and if she can't be happy, no one can. And then she… she…"

"She turned you into this," you finish for him. "And let me guess: your first victims were—"

"M-my brother. And his wife. They're gone – dust. Then I was just hungry for it – I don't know why, but I needed it, and Abigail said she could help – she got a job as a counselor here, and she'd pick out people for me to-to…" He shakes his head, swallowing the lump of guilt sitting thick and heavy in his throat. "Oh Christ, what have I done?"

"You did this to yourself," Abby says with a sneer. "Alright, story time's over. Let's go."

"I have to – I'm so sorry, but I have to—"

"I'm sorry too," Sam says, pulling the handgun from behind his back and hitting Abby with a perfect headshot.

Chris just stands there, panting and glowing, mouth hanging agape. "I can't… I don't know—"

"It's not over for you, yet," you tell Chris as you get up from the floor and brush off your legs. "Her amulet is what's keeping you here – we have to burn it. But we don't know if burning it will set you free or kill you."

Chris nods his head, saying, "It will be a kindness, either way. I'm so sorry. All of those people—"

"It wasn't you, Chris," Sam says as you fetch the amulet from Abby's corpse. "You couldn't help it."

"Alright." You're poised with the amulet in one hand and a lighter in the other. "Are you ready for this?"

"Ready," he says.

You set fire to the amulet, tossing it into Abby's cast iron pot as you stand beside Sam. The two of you watch as Chris himself goes up in green-tinted flames, screaming in agony. You could swear you hear him say the words, ' _thank you._ ' Mourning yet another person that you couldn't save, you lean into Sam, and he wraps an arm around you, taking your hand.

"Damn it."

* * *

 **A/N:** Please forgive the shorter chapter – it's necessary for the story. There will be smut in the next chapter!


	5. The Homework Assignment

**A/N:** Fair warning: there is smut in this chapter!

* * *

You decide to leave Abby's body where it is, opting to return to the room, log on to Sam's laptop, and erase any footage of you and Sam in the halls this evening from the resort's security database.

You're packing all of your hunting provisions away into your paisley suitcase when you wonder aloud, "How long 'til they find her, do you think?"

"Probably by tomorrow afternoon, at the latest," Sam replies, peering over the top of his laptop.

"So what do we do?" You sit down on the edge of the bed beside Sam, untying and removing your boots. "Do we run?"

"I think we should probably act casual. We have one day left, right? If they find the body just as we've checked out prematurely, they'll definitely suspect us."

"That's never stopped you before," you say. _Something's definitely not right here_. "You usually only care about getting away in time."

"Okay, yeah. Maybe," he relents, closing the lid of his laptop and setting it on the floor beside the bed. You sit up onto the bed, folding your legs beneath you as you await Sam's explanation. "Alright, don't laugh at me, but it's just – I just don't want to leave yet." You can't help but smile. "A good mattress without bedbugs or weird stains, meals that don't come from a fast food drive-thru window, water pressure built for the gods – we already paid for three days. Why not enjoy them? When do we _ever_ get to enjoy ourselves?"

"Yeah, I know," you say with a sigh.

"I was kind of enjoying the ruse a little bit – but we don't have to go to the group thing in the morning, obviously."

You huff a laugh. "Yeah, I'll pass."

"We'd probably get in trouble for not doing our homework anyway. And I know for a fact that teachers _never_ think monster hunting is a good excuse."

You both laugh, remembering times during your preteen years when you undoubtedly used the hunting excuse just to piss off your teachers. "Ditto. Even had a teacher once who insisted on calling my mom about it. She picked me up from school and took me to the diner. It was nice."

"What was the homework assignment anyway – something about a massage, right? I think we've both earned a little relaxation, don't you think?"

"I think having to _give_ the massage as well probably takes away from the relaxation bit, but—" You hesitate to let him get this close to you for fear of disappointment, but the part of you that longs for him can't pass up the chance. "—sure, yeah. I'm down."

Sam pulls the folded piece of paper out from under the coaster on the nightstand. "Okay, let's see..." Unfolding it, he clears his throat and reads in a mocking tone, " _Intimacy is an intrinsic part of any marriage – including both sexual and non-sexual intimacy. The following is an exercise in touch and sensation._ "

"Oooh, now I'm excited," you jest.

"It says we'll need massage oil – oh, there was some in that little basket thing on the back of the toilet. I'll grab that, hang on." As he gets up from the bed, you peer over at the next bit of instruction on the sheet – _nudity. Great._

When Sam rejoins you in the room, you've already unbuttoned your flannel, which hangs limp over your shoulders as you wiggle out of your jeans. "Step one," you say. "Strip – down to your underwear. Come on, Sammy, don't keep me waiting," you tease, removing your flannel and your socks and tossing them unceremoniously onto the floor. You try to arrange yourself on the bed in a visually pleasing manner, but it's probably just coming off forced and uncomfortable. _That's fine._

He huffs an awkward laugh. "Alright," he says, handing you the bottle of massage oil. As he unbuttons his shirt, he asks, "What's step two?"

As you revisit the paper instructions, you're both relieved and disappointed to be given a reason to look away as Sam is undressing – half of you wants to avert your gaze, clinging to whatever propriety you have left between you, while the other half (the more depraved half) desperately wants to watch and savor the moment.

"Uh, yeah, right – ' _step two_ :' oh hey, look – they have a little diagram!" You laugh at the little illustration. "Okay, sorry." You begin reading off of the paper again. "' _Person number one is to sit upright – preferably against a headboard or a wall – with their legs spread apart in a v-formation._ '" Sam obviously decides that he is going to be person number one, quickly getting into position on the bed after disrobing. _"'Position the second person between the first person's legs, facing away from their partner.'"_ You sit between Sam's legs, trying your damnedest not to make any more physical contact than is strictly necessary. _"'From this position, the first person will be massaging the second person's shoulders and back, while the second person will be massaging their partner's feet and calves.'"_ You pause your reading, saying. "Dude, I don't think that's gonna work. Your legs are way too long. Oh hey, wait a second – _'Note: if one person is significantly taller than the other, they should assume the role of person number two.'"_

"Alright, let's switch places then. Damn – I always liked being the big spoon."

"I guess that just makes me the awkward little spoon that someone accidentally stacked the big spoon on top of," you comment, eliciting a giggle from both of you.

Once the two of you have switched positions, you continue reading: " _'Step three: apply oil to hands, not directly to skin,'_ blah blah blah…" you mumble as you begin audibly skimming through the directions. "Okay, I think I get the gist." You pour a small amount of the massage oil into your palm. "Here," you say, handing him the bottle over his shoulder before rubbing your palms together to warm up the oil. From there, you decide to just dive in wholeheartedly.

As soon as your hands make contact, you're overwhelmed by Sam's warmth and the smoothness of his skin. With the first press of your thumbs into the muscles of his shoulders, he lets out a long, satisfied sound, pausing in his own ministrations to savor the feeling. He melts back into you just the slightest bit, releasing the tension in his posture before rubbing the oil between his own palms and getting to work on your feet.

His hands are strong and very capable, and within moments, he has you mimicking his groan of satisfaction from moments earlier. You give back in kind. Your hands rotate from the back of his shoulders up along his trapezius muscle – the one that joins his neck with his shoulders – back down on either side of his spine, ending on the muscle beneath his shoulder blades. You press hard on the muscles, periodically earning another small, strangled noise from the man in front of you. Every so often, he has to pause in massaging your feet to take a breath and enjoy the sensation.

"This is nice," you say conversationally.

He chuckles. "You're doing all of the work here."

"It's not your fault that you're just one big tangle of muscle knots. Here, lie down on your front. I'll give you the full treatment."

"You sure?" he asks hesitantly.

"Yeah," you say, smiling warmly. "You can repay me later." The wink is implied.

You move off of the bed so that he can position himself on his front, and the sight of him with his head resting on his folded arms – showing off every hard-earned muscle in his back, arms, and shoulders – is mouthwatering. You straddle his thighs, pressing your weight into his lower back as you work the muscles there too.

He mumbles, "How are you so good at this?"

"My mom used to come home exhausted after hunts," you say, grunting as you work your thumbs into a particularly tough knot, "and she'd pay me to do a good job of massaging her back and her feet. After a while, I started to do it for other hunters too – they paid me pretty nicely and would tip me with alcohol, usually. It was a pretty sweet gig for a teenager."

"You're lucky Dean never knew about that. He would've taken full advantage."

You smirk. "Mom always said that I reserve the right to refuse service to any creepy, dirty, or otherwise unsavory characters at my discretion." Sam laughs openly at that. "Alright, straighten your arms out, like this," you say, gripping his forearms lightly and directing him to lay them out flat along his sides. You have to reposition yourself further up his body to reach his upper back – and you try not to think about how your core is pressed so nicely against his pert, beautiful ass.

After several more minutes of thoroughly working over Sam's upper back muscles, he says, "Alright, this is amazing, but are you gonna let me return the favor?"

"Yeah, sure," you say, smiling softly as you climb off of him.

"Mmmm – I'm just gonna need a second to peel myself off of this bed."

You giggle, enjoying the sight of an exhausted, perfectly content Sam plastered onto the duvet of the lavish hotel bed. "Take your time. Should we open this champagne?"

"Yes please." He slowly gets up, stretching his fantastically sore muscles as you pop open the bottle of champagne and dole out two glasses.

You hand him a glass, and he makes a quick toast. "To Chris – that poor son of a bitch."

"To Chris."

You sip at your glass, placing it on the nearest coaster before asking, "Alright – where do you want me?" Sam seems to blush at the question. "You know what I mean."

"What do you want me to focus on?"

"Hmm – my shoulders, probably. Like how I started on you."

"Alright – sit here," he says, resuming his original position against the headboard and patting the space between his legs. "Oh, and uh – fair warning, by the way: I'm not nearly as good at this as you are."

"You're a strapping young lad – you'll do just fine. Just try to do what I did. Honestly, any attention will be very well-received at this point. Plus – I don't know if I've ever gotten a massage before."

"That doesn't seem very fair. I'll try to do right by you," he says with a smile. You throw your hair up into a quick messy bun before getting into position. He reapplies the oil to his palms, getting to work as he tries to mimic your movements from before.

You can tell that your bra straps are a little obstructive, but Sam would never say anything about it – he's much too polite. So, you push them off of your shoulders to get them out of the way.

Honestly, the way that his strong, capable hands felt on your feet before is nothing compared to how they feel now on your shoulders. You groan loudly, causing him to laugh. He follows your pattern – shoulders, neck, upper back, and shoulder blades – but his hands are much stronger than yours. He could be totally botching this massage and you wouldn't care in the slightest. "Mmm. You're a natural, Sam," you say, reassuring him.

Maybe you're drunk on sensation, or maybe it's the lavender massage oil – _something_ is most certainly emboldening you at the moment as you rest a hand on Sam's thigh, running your fingertips back and forth along his skin. His hands falter just the slightest bit (almost unnoticeably), but you can tell that it's because he wasn't anticipating the touch. Nonchalantly, you reach over to the bedside table, grabbing your champagne glass and sipping at it before resuming your touch on Sam's leg. Maybe you're teasing him – you're not entirely sure, to be quite honest. Maybe you're just trying to provoke some sort of reaction from him. Whatever your intentions were, it's not working. He just continues the massage.

As his hands inch down your back, you decide to up the game a little bit: you reach back to undo your bra clasp, and before your hand even makes it there, Sam stops you with a light grip on your wrist.

"You don't have to do that."

"Oh, I know. But do you really think that I'm gonna let you get away with giving me a half-assed massage?" You throw him a smirk over your shoulder – later, you'll be impressed with how quickly you were able to come up with that quip. Sam releases your wrist and you finish unclasping and removing your bra, tossing it atop your other clothes on the floor. Sam doesn't protest. He just continues moving his hands further down your back, pressing his thumbs ever-so-beautifully on either side of your spine in small, soothing circles. You groan a little louder than you intended to, hunching forward as you roll your neck.

At the bottom of your back, just above your tailbone, Sam spreads his hands out sideways so that his thumbs can reach down far enough – and with how large his hands are, it causes him to grip the sides of your hips with the tips of his fingers. You sit up slowly, your breathing shallow as you're suddenly privy to every single sound in the room; for some reason, this particular touch really gets your blood pumping, and you find yourself focusing on the way Sam seems to be holding his breath, letting out short, measured exhales every few seconds. Whatever it is that you're feeling, it's electric – and Sam feels it too.

Suddenly, his hands move to properly grip your hips, and your senses go into overdrive once again – but this time, it's not a result of your hunter instincts kicking in. No – this is different. You feel the heat radiating off of Sam's body as he moves closer to you. You hear him exhale a shaky breath, and you feel him press his lips to the back of your shoulder. It's not a kiss, exactly – no, his lips are parted and lax as he lays them there gently. He exhales against your skin, and you shiver.

"Tell me to stop," he says, his voice uncharacteristically low.

You place your own hands atop his on your hips, replying, "I don't think that I can." You sound absolutely wrecked, but you can't really be bothered to care.

As soon as you make eye contact over your shoulder, Sam's lips collide with yours. Your movements are frantic, like you are each other's only handle on reality – which is cliché and trite and overly romanticized, but nothing else really seems fitting at the moment. Your kisses are interspersed with small moans and grunts, and with whatever nerve you have left, you turn around – still completely bare from the waist up – and straddle his lap, inhaling deeply (and noisily) as you press your lips harder against his. He wraps his arms around you, his hands landing on your ass as he pulls you closer to him with those strong, sexy, positively _ridiculous_ man hands of his.

He makes a loud ' _mmm_ ' sound as you grind down onto his lap, searching for friction and finding him completely hard – _that's not something that happens instantaneously, so how long before he kissed me did he actually start to get an erection?_ He has to pull back and take a breath, evidently steeling himself. _Do I really have that effect on him?_ He suddenly feels like your every wet dream, and yet you never once stopped to think that maybe you were his all along too.

The kiss devolves into something even more forceful and passionate, your grip on his back sure to leave behind a few bruises ( _how beautifully ironic_ ). You try to look sexy as you let your hair down and discard the hair tie.

You're not entirely sure who initiated the wrestling of tongues, but Sam ultimately wins the tacit battle for dominance. You couldn't be more pleased with the way that his tongue presses against your own inside your mouth, and when you try to bite back a moan, you just end up biting his lip instead – making him snarl in the most delicious way.

He pulls away from the kiss just slightly to look into your eyes, one of his hands coming up to gently cup your cheek. You're not exactly sure what he's trying to communicate here, but you just respond with a soft smile as you continue kissing him, this time along his jaw and down the side of his neck. With a half-groan-half-grunt, his head _thunk_ s back against the headboard, and you smirk inwardly. You're purposely pushing his buttons, trying to see what does and doesn't get a rise out of him. And so far, he's very responsive. The very best reaction that you elicit comes when you bite the skin of his neck gently whilst simultaneously running your fingers through his hair and pulling ever-so-gently – the combination evokes a loud, unbridled moan as his hips buck up into you and his grip on your ass tightens.

"You like that?" You don't even know what prompts you to ask such a thing, but the words are out of your mouth before you can even think about them, so you just kind of run with it. You drag your lips up along the skin of his neck and proceed to nip at his earlobe. "Hmm?"

He laughs darkly. "Yeah – yeah, I do." Up until now, he's taken great care to avoid your bare chest at all costs – maybe he was trying to be respectful, but he seems to have thrown caution to the wind as his gaze sweeps over your entire body and his fingertips drift from your back around to your chest. He gropes your breasts almost roughly, kissing you hard as you whimper at his touch. He swallows thickly, bringing his lips to your skin and running his tongue over your nipples. He makes sure to look you dead in the eye as his gentle licking turns to sucking, provoking the most fearsome ache in your belly along with the most porn-worthy moan to ever grace your lips. "Do _you_ like _that?_ "

" _Mmm_ —uh-huh," you groan, carding your fingers through his hair.

"God, the _sounds_ you make – you're killing me."

"Fuck me, Sam. _Please_ fuck me."

He has to pause, close his eyes, and take a breath for a moment, lest this whole encounter end before it even begins. Instead of responding, he just gives you this look powered by lust-blown pupils – you're not sure what he's trying to say, but you hope that his answer is _yes._

He kisses you again, wrapping his arms around you tightly, and before you even know what's happened, he has you flipped over so that you're lying on your back and he's hovering over you. In a low, gravelly tone, he says, "You have no idea what you're doing to me right now – how badly I want you." He punctuates his statements by grinding his hips down into yours, providing just enough friction to get you fired up, but not enough to give you any real pleasure.

That is, until his hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties and gives you something to _really_ moan about.

"Oh, _Sam_ —"

"I've got you," he says, his fingertips working your clit just right as his other hand begins removing your panties. You lift your hips a bit so that he can drag them down and off of your legs.

"Y-your fingers, I need—" Abruptly, as if reading your mind, Sam pushes two fingers into your entrance, and you whimper. "Yeah, oh _fuck,_ Sam." He finds your sweet spot in record time – you've never known anyone to be able to get you so close to the edge so very quickly. When his thumb slips back to your clit, you're done for. "I-I'm gonna—"

"Let go, sweetheart."

And just like that, you're seeing stars, the feeling radiating outward from your core all the way to your fingertips. You can't be bothered to care about the sounds leaving your mouth at the moment, but as you start to come down from your amazing high, you can hear the whimper in your every exhale.

Sam looks a bit amazed as he says, "That was so fucking sexy – you have no idea."

That orgasm did absolutely nothing to snuff out the fire burning within you – no, if anything, you're more desperate for him now than you were before. "Take these off," you say, gesturing to his boxer briefs. "If my arms didn't feel like jell-o, I'd do it myself," you tease.

Sam grins, pushing the offending garment down and off of his legs. When he's completely bare, your hands are on him immediately – the fingers of your left hand run through the hair on the back of his neck as your right hand grips his cock, stroking him as he moans loudly. He kisses you to stifle his own sounds, his tongue invading your mouth quickly and feverishly. Your hand speeds up, but before you can get much momentum going, he pulls back and says, "If you keep that up, I won't last."

"Awh, but I was so hoping I'd get to suck your cock," you say, pouting teasingly.

"God, as much as I'd like that, I really want to be inside you."

"Then what are you waiting for, Winchester?"

He just looks you in the eyes, a warm half-smile on his face – almost as if he can't really believe that you're here, spread out on the bed underneath him. "I don't really know. I've been waiting a _really_ long time now, and I can't even remember why."

You simply smile back at him for a moment before saying, "Alright then. Do I need to say please?"

He laughs, leaning down to kiss you sweetly as he positions himself at your entrance. Taking one of your hands in his, he laces your fingers together and holds your hand against the bed beside you. He leans his forehead against yours, your lips mere centimeters from each other as he slowly begins sinking into you. You take great pleasure in seeing Sam being taken apart, piece by piece – his mouth hangs agape, his grip on your hand tightens, his eyes are squeezed shut, and his brow is furrowed as he struggles to stay composed. Trouble is, you don't want him to be composed – you want him to let go.

So, you run your fingers through his hair and tug sharply, eliciting a hiss and a loud groan as Sam's hips slam into yours.

" _Uhn_ – Sam, _fuck._ You're fucking _hug_ e. Christ, I need a minute." After about ten seconds of your very own informal breathing exercise, you nod and say, "Alright, I think I'm good."

It takes him until now to realize that you recall from the group session that he likes having his hair pulled. He wonders to himself, _what was her 'kink,' again? Something about her partner taking charge… but biting was in there somewhere, too – right?_ He smirks, feeling victorious as he finds your ultimate kryptonite in his memory (or maybe it's the opposite of kryptonite – whatever would get superman extra turned on).

With that devilish smirk on his face, he pins your wrists to the bed beside you and begins thrusting into you at a punishing pace. "You like that, sweetheart? Hmm?"

"Yes, Sam. Oh, _god_ _—_ "

He leans down to mutter in your ear. "I'm gonna take you apart," he says, pausing to nip at your earlobe and the skin beneath your ear, "and you're gonna love _every_ _second_ of it." He punctuates his words ( _his promise_ ) with deep, lingering, indulgent thrusts, making sure to grind against your clit with every touch of your hips to his.

"Please, Sam. _Please,_ " you beg. You're not even sure what you're asking for – but Sam seems to know exactly what you need.

His hips start picking up speed and momentum, but just as you feel the beginnings of another orgasm, Sam flips you over so that he's sitting upright against the headboard and you're straddling his lap.

"Come on, baby. _Ride me,"_ he says – and with a mouth like that, you'll do whatever he asks. "Make yourself come on my cock."

You whimper and moan as you mount him and sink down into his lap. You don't have time to adjust this time – no, you just lift yourself up and sink back down onto him immediately, savoring the slight burn. You get a good pace going as your bare, sweaty chest rubs up against Sam's, and his hands wrap around you again to grip your ass and to pull you against him, guiding your hips as you move atop him. You ride him like this, sloppy and uncoordinated but ultimately so very satisfying.

In a moment of sheer self-indulgence, you grind down onto his lap, holding yourself there with Sam's cock buried inside you. The moan/whimper combo that spills from your lips feels incredibly unfamiliar to your ears – it's really like something straight out of a porn film. "Feels so _good,_ Sam. So full – oh _god_ ," you groan, and his hands hold you there as he gyrates his hips, stimulating your clit. "I – fuck, uhn – I'm gonna come, I'm gonna—" you drag your nails down his back, surely leaving deep red marks as he hisses, grinding his hips up into yours.

Just as your orgasm starts to peak, Sam does something entirely unexpected – he bites down _hard_ on your neck, sucking and laving at the indent with his tongue. Forget sending you over the edge – this is what positively _hurls_ you past the point of no return. You writhe on Sam's lap, and he snarls through gritted teeth as you clench around him.

"You are just so fucking beautiful. So good for me," he grunts, holding you tightly against him as he fucks up into you. He starts to whimper, kissing you soundly to mask the sounds of his buildup.

"I—I'm on the pill. Come for me, Sam. _Please_ come for me – inside me. I wanna _feel_ it."

His eyes are squeezed shut as his breath comes in labored pants. "Oh – oh _god_ _—_ "

He tries to hold back the sounds, but you coax his mouth open with your tongue as you kiss him messily, saying, "Come on, let me hear you."

And he does. He roars his release, keeping your hips held tightly against his as he spills into you, and you clench around him for good measure. With a final shudder, the two of you collapse onto the bed beneath you. You take comfort laying on Sam's chest, his arm wrapped around you as he mindlessly strokes your back.

"I think that was meant to be a non-sexual massage."

"Well, we're also supposed to _actually_ be married, but neither of us have ever been very good at following directions."


	6. 10-54

Sure enough, you get a notification on your phone at 9 AM from your police scanner app. You decide to ignore it for a half hour or so until your curiosity gets the better of you.

"Sam, you gotta see this," you say, nudging his side to wake him up. "'Dispatch got a call: 901-H from Mount Ellen Couples Resort, Washington County. 10-54, sending officers to the scene.'"

"Alright," he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "so they'll be busy for a while. How long do you think it'll take them to realize it's not arson?"

"They'd probably need to call in forensics – the test won't come back for a few days, probably. Shit, I'm not a forensics expert."

In a mocking tone, he asks, "But you _are_ a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, is that correct?"

You mime pulling a zipper across your lips and play innocent.

Another notification comes up on your phone, and Sam reads it aloud: "11-44 – Coroner required. Yikes. Should we get out of here before the local news shows up?"

"Probably. But we haven't even gotten our breakfast yet," you say, frowning and pouting dramatically. "The service here is terrible."

"Yes, how dare they allow the newly-discovered corpse of a staff member impinge upon the guests' most precious breakfast hour."

"… I guess we could stop at a gas station for some stale coffee, lukewarm hot dogs, and regret."

"That sounds more like us."

* * *

"So, what – are you guys, like, a _thing_ now?" Dean looks baffled, even though he would've been the first to point out the blatant attraction between you and Sam.

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know. You know how I feel about her – which you've pointed out on numerous occasions."

"I guess I just never thought you'd have the balls to do anything about it."

"Yeah, well, I did. Or we both did, I guess. I was just gonna ask her if she wanted to come stay with us – we'd probably make a great team: me, you, and her."

Dean scoffs, saying, "She hunts with Jen, _sometimes,_ and that's about it – unless someone asks for her help very _very_ nicely. She's a lone wolf. We'd probably just get in her way."

Sam sighs, tacitly admitting defeat. "Then maybe she could stay with us and we could do our own thing – you know, go our own ways, work our own hunts – but just have the same home base. That would be nice."

"Stop kidding yourself, Sammy – you just want someone nice and warm to cuddle up to at night, and your pillow's not cuttin' it. I totally get it, dude – no sweat. But seriously, don't delude yourself into thinking that you'd be doing it for her sake – you know as well as I do that she doesn't need your help."

"God, I hate when you're right."

"Go on, Sammy – call her."

* * *

~ The End ~


End file.
